bathing used to mean a little more than cleaning up the dirt on my face and the soil in my toes.
as a toddler, every bath was like a ride into a magical wonderland of my own. for hours, i would hide in the bathroom, playing with soap, making bubbles with my fingers, and blowing them off my hands. each bubble was so pretty - reflecting through its surface a whole spectrum of colours - yet so fragile. and i would watch in fascination, how these bubbles levitated to the air above, eventually clinging to one of the walls or ceiling. i wanted so much, to seize them and imprison them in my musical box, hence in an attempt to hold them captive, i reached out my hands to
grasp -
but the bubble burst,
dispelling the magic that it capsulated in its transience.
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